Infection
by NC Girl
Summary: Sam’s reaction to a creature’s attack has Dean and Bobby struggling to find a way to help him.


Hi there! Before you start reading, I feel the need to give this little warning: This might turn out to be my first ever attempt at writing a multi-chapter story. This first part has been written (and sitting) for nearly 2 years. I got to this point in the story and got stuck- I have absolutely no idea how to finish this. Frankly, though, I'm sick of looking at it so I'm just going to post it with the hopes that inspiration will come to me, the pressure will be on, and I will finally finish it off this month. (that's my goal, anyway) But just know, it _might_ be a while. And it might be disastrous.

Oh yeah, and this has only been proof-read by me so let me apologize at the start for any and all typos, bad grammar, stupid jokes, bad puns, etc.

* * *

**Infection**

By NC Girl

"What the hell was _that_?"

Sam's voice squeaked and cracked as he hastily back-crawled away from the smoking remains of whatever it was I had just killed. I slowly made my way over to him, the gun still leveled at the dead creature and ready to shoot again if necessary.

"Beats the hell out of me," I said, not taking my eyes off the dark lump in front of us. In all my years of hunting the scariest, meanest, and deadliest "possessions" this country has to offer, the dead creature in front of us was something I had never seen or even heard about before. "It's an ugly bastard," I added with a shake of my head. "Stinks, too."

"You're telling me. Be glad _you_ weren't the one pinned under it."

There was something in Sam's quiet, lethargic voice that made my attention snap from the steaming corpse to my brother sitting on the ground next to me. Without lowering the rifle, I shot a quick glance over to him. He was breathing heavily with his head bowed low.

"Sam? Y'all right?"

He didn't answer and barely moved so I gently kicked out my leg and nudged his thigh with my foot. I was a little worried about his overall… _stillness_. It was not like him to remain so quiet after an attack unless he was hurt. "Sammy. Talk to me, man. Are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah, I… uh... no, actually I don't think so."

That was definitely not what I wanted to hear. Convinced that the creature was not about to pull a horror-movie-revival, I dropped to crouch down beside my brother, rested a hand on the back of his neck, and leaned forward to try to see his face in the dark. Where the hell was my flashlight?

"What is it?"

Sam was still breathing heavily so he simply pulled his jacket back a bit, exposing his left side to me. Despite the lack of light, I could easily make out the dark stain against his light colored shirt.

"Jesus, Sam!" My words came out as if someone had punched me in the stomach. I shifted my weight so that I was now crouched in front of him and gently pulled at the sliced shirt. Sam hissed at the subtle movement as he reached out to stop me.

"Okay, okay, let's get back to the car and find a place to call home for the night. I want to take care of that with some holy water since we have no idea what the hell _that_ thing is," I said, standing and nodding toward the smoldering, oversized, uglypiglikedemoncreature - you know, for lack of the scientific name. I reached down, hooked an arm around one of Sam's, and hoisted him to his feet with a soft grunt.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow." Sam was quiet, but apparently couldn't help his reaction to the pain as his side pulled with nearly every movement. It wasn't a long walk back to the car, but by the time we reached the ol'girl, he was pale and drenched in sweat. I opened the passenger door and helped him ease down onto the seat.

"Hang in there, Sam. I think we passed a motel only few miles back. Just…uh…just think happy thoughts," I finished lightly with an enthusiastic smile and a gentle pat on his shoulder as if that would fix everything. Sam rolled his eyes and gave me a quick smile, but didn't comment. I think he could tell that I was more than a little concerned, especially since we really had no idea what kind of creature we were dealing with. I appreciated his effort to lighten the mood.

Nearly 30 minutes later I found myself hovering as Sam settled on the end of a bed. The bleeding had slowed considerably, but the wound was angry and red. I pulled a chair over and sat down across from him with an uncapped bottle of holy water in one hand and an uncapped flask of whisky in the other.

"Here." I said, pushing the flask into his hand. "Take a good swig."

With barely a second thought, he chugged nearly all of the contents as if it were water. When he pulled back, he had a pained look on his face- and I'm pretty sure I had a shocked look on mine. Damn, that was impressive! I can't say I've ever him down that much whiskey in that little time. My kid brother has been holding out on me.

Sam took a shaky breath and hoarsely gave me the go-ahead to begin the work. "Let's get this over with," he said as he reclined on the bed.

I grabbed a few towels from the bathroom, folded them on the long end, and wedged them along Sam's side, providing a cleaner barrier between his open wound and the bed covers. He had already removed his jacket and over-shirt, but his torn t-shirt remained. He hissed as he pulled it up past his ribcage.

I reached across his body and clasped his right hand with mine, locking thumbs as if we were about to arm wrestle, and lifted the bottle of blessed water in salute. "You ready?"

Sam nodded once and prepared himself for the possible assault. I carefully poured the cool liquid over the gash in my brother's side, wincing in both sympathy and pain as Sam clamped down on my hand in a bone-crushing grip. His eyes screwed shut and he clenched his jaw so tightly that the round muscles on the side of his cheeks bulged under the pressure. Predictably, the liquid bubbled and sizzled as it ran over the wound and down onto the white towel roll, washing away the excess blood, turning the towel various shades of red in the process. I held onto Sam's hand tightly and when the sizzling subsided, I poured again.

"Oh shit!" Sam half-sobbed as the holy water penetrated the wound a second time. He grabbed the side of the bed with his free hand and pressed his head back into the pillow.

You're doing good, Sammy. Almost done." I tried to encourage him quietly while providing tension against his grip. "Breathe."

Sam's face was bright red and beads of sweat gathered all along his forehead. I tossed the empty water bottle onto the other bed and splayed my now-free hand on his chest. "Sam! Don't hold your breath. Breathe!"

Finally he took in a big gulping breath of air and half-coughed, half-sobbed as he released it again.

"Oh, shit, Dean. Shit." A tear fell from the corner of his closed eyes and trailed down toward his ear. "Oh, that hurt."

I moved my hand from his t-shirt clad chest to the top his sweat covered forehead.

"I know, man, I know. It's over. Just keep breathing." He was scaring me a little bit, but seemed to be listening to my attempts at encouragement and coaching as he forced air in and out of his lungs. "That's it, kiddo, keep breathing."

After several long minutes, Sam's labored breaths evened out and he relaxed his death-grip on my hand, but didn't let go.

"Hey. How are you feeling?" It seemed like a stupid question, but I needed to get an idea of his level of pain.

Sam barely skipped a beat.

"Like I just ran a marathon. Up hill. With one lung and a knife in my side."

It was a weak reply, but his sarcastic attempt at humor, ground out for my benefit, was a relief. With a quiet chuckle, I patted Sam's hand before releasing it and went into the bathroom again, returning with a wet washcloth and a hand towel.

The bleeding had now stopped completely but the skin around the wounds was still red, raw, and hot. I cleaned the area gently, but Sam still twitched and jumped whenever the cloth made contact. The slash marks were wide, stretching from under his arm, along is side, to the middle of his abdomen, to just about his diaphragm. Amazingly, with the exception of a few small puncture wounds that could be closed with butterfly bandages or first aid glue, nothing looked deep enough to require stitches. I simply finished up with gauze pads and medical tape.

"I think that'll take care of it for now." I said as I applied the last bit of medical tape. "How are you doing?"

Sam blinked slowly and mumbled something that sounded enough like "okay" to satisfy me. I could tell it was a struggle for him to focus. He had been through a lot in the last hour or so and between the pain and the amount of whiskey he downed earlier, I was surprised he was still conscious. By the time I removed the wet and bloody towels from along his side and pulled his shredded t-shirt back down, his eyes were closed and his breathing was nearly back to normal. It wasn't long before he let out a deep sigh indicating that he was, in fact, most likely out for the evening. I picked up my discarded jacket from the back of the chair and draped it over his torso.

Three hours later and I was nearly climbing the walls. Sam had barely moved since he passed out, the television got lousy reception, and I was bored to tears within 45 minutes. There isn't much to do in a 15x15 foot room when the only other occupant is your unconscious brother. Not really wanting to leave Sam in his current state, I opted to order a pizza then easily bribed the delivery guy to make a beer run for me. Half a pizza and two beers later, I was full, sleepy, stretched out on my bed, and about to doze off when Sam started thrashing in his sleep.

"Sam?"

He didn't respond to me but did cry out against the unseen enemy in his mind. I pushed myself up, shifting over to Sam's bed to give his shoulder a firm shake.

"Sam. Wake up, man."

When I didn't get a response, I reached over and gently slapped his cheek. I was not expecting the intense heat I felt when I touched his face.

"Holy shit, Sam!" I gasped in complete shock before pulling my coat off of him and gently pushing up the end of his t-shirt to expose the wounds. My brother had stopped twitching but now was shivering uncontrollably. I pulled back the bandages and inspected the injuries. Despite the thorough cleaning and holy water treatment, they had become more inflamed and angry looking. "Damnit, what did that thing do to you?"

I can only recall a handful of times in my adult life when a situation has left me feeling completely helpless, but this one just catapulted to the top of the list. I had absolutely no idea what to do. My brother had some kind of unknown infection from some kind of unknown creature and apparently I didn't have the first clue as to how to fix him. His pain was obvious, though, and I was scared.

Sam moaned in his sleep and took several rapid, shallow breaths before calling out for me. I covered the wounds again before reaching up and laying a hand on the top of his head. "Sam. Wake up, man. You're starting to scare me, here."

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my brother opened his eyes. They were bloodshot and bright with fever, but he seemed lucid. It was a start.

"Dean."

"Hey there, Cupcake," I smiled, trying to make light of a situation that was scaring me out of my mind. Sam just stared. "C'mon. I'm going to help you sit up and I want you to drink some water, okay?"

I maneuvered myself so that I was sitting on the bed, facing him, and prepared to pull him forward. "Ready?"

I didn't wait for an answer before I pulled him up, toward me, with a grunt from both of us. I quickly shifted my position, sliding to sit behind him, and braced his body against mine with one arm. With the other, I reached out for the glass of water on the night stand and pressed it into one of his hands.

"Here you go. Think you can hold this on your own?"

Sam gave a small nod but his hands wouldn't cooperate. I had to steady him as he lifted the glass and was surprised to see him gulp it down as if he was dying from thirst. I guess that between the fever and the whisky, he was more than a little dehydrated. As I took the empty glass out of his hand to put it on the night stand, Sam slammed back against me.

"Sam! What the hell…?"

"Get away from me!" he screamed, fighting to get out of my hold. Suddenly, my fever-ridden, injured, and exhausted brother had the strength of 20 men on steroids and apparently they all had decided that I was the enemy. Well, that's a damn fine howdoyado.

I locked my arms around his chest and tried to hold him still. I could easily feel the heat rolling off his body and knew he was in a fever-induced hallucination. I think I was able to subdue him for a total of three seconds before one of his boney elbows made the painful connection with one of my ribs.

"Sam! It's me! Stop fighting me, man! You'll start…ow!... bleeding again."

"Get…off! Lemme GO!"

Sam was struggling hard, twisting and thrashing as he tried to escape my hold. Just as I was about to give in and let him go, he suddenly sagged in my arms and his head rolled back against my shoulder. Although I adjusted my grip to accommodate for the sudden dead weight, I stayed fairly still, waiting for the other shoe to drop. After a few moments, it was apparent that Sam was beyond exhausted having spent his remaining energy in the struggle. I leaned forward and tried to see his face. Sam's eyes were partially open, but he remained still and unfocused as he stared straight ahead. I loosened the grip I had around his chest and used one hand to lightly tap his cheek.

"Sammy?"

* * *

"Yeah?"

The voice on the other end of the line was rough and irritated.

"Bobby, it's Dean. I really need your help, man. I don't know what to do and Sam's acting really weird and he's out of it and the gashes are obviously infected and I used holy water but I'm not sure if it made any difference at all and there's-"

"Holy crap, kid, slow down! You're gonna hyperventilate before you finish a damn sentence. Where are you?"

"At a motel on Highway 12."

"Son, you're gonna have to be a little more specific. It's the middle of the night and I've been out of coffee for two days. Help me out here."

Bobby was calm and direct but he picked up on the urgency of the situation and I was grateful. I took a deep breath, pushing a hand through my hair then squeezing the tense muscle at the back of my neck.

"Sorry. Crescent Moon Inn, somewhere between Webster and Greton. Uh, hang on a sec." I pulled the drawer to the nightstand open to find a pad of motel stationary, complete with the full address. "Ridgewood. We're in Ridgewood, not far from the exit. In fact, you can see the hotel sign from the highway."

I heard the distinct sound of metal banging against metal, followed by the rumble of a truck engine, and suddenly some of the weight lifted from my shoulders.

"Okay, good. I know Webster; I'll be able to find you. Should take me about two hours to get there but I'm pullin' out right now. So, you wanna fill me in?"

I sat down on the edge of Sam's bed and looked at the still form of my brother. Suddenly, my head felt like it weighed 40 pounds and my neck simply couldn't hold the weight anymore. I braced an elbow on one knee and leaned forward until my forehead rested in my hand.

"God, Bobby, I don't know. We were just walking through a wooded lot, looking for anything that would help us with the job we took this week, when we were attacked by this… I dunno, this creature thing. I have no idea what the hell it was. I killed it, but not before it pinned Sam and did a number on him."

"Where's your brother, Dean?" Bobby suddenly sounded worried.

"He's right here. He was cut up a little, but nothing life-threatening. He's had worse. Shoot, we all have. The cuts didn't even need stitches so I cleaned him up and we did the whole holy water torture treatment…"

"So, there was a reaction to the holy water, then?"

"Yeah, you could say that."

"And now you say Sam's acting weird. Weird how?"

"Weird in the _he wants to kill me_ sense of the word. He freaked out on me about 20 minutes ago; woke up with a fever and then just went ballistic. He didn't seem to recognize me or hear me or know where he was. I thought it was a fever hallucination, ya know? But it was different. He had all his usual strength and then some. I felt like I was trying to hold down a pissed-off linebacker on steroids, man."

"But now he's okay?"

"Now he's _out cold_," I clarified. "He just sort of went still, mid-freak out. But, as far as I can tell, he seems to be okay. I mean, he's not foaming at the mouth or spewing pea soup if that's what you mean. And he's still breathing, so, you know, that's good." I paused as I reached over to lay my hand on Sam's forehead. "Fever's still there, but I think it might actually be coming down. I dunno, Bobby. Maybe I shouldn't have called you… but I wish you could have seen him. That just scared me, man."

"No, you did the right thing, Dean." Bobby said without the slightest hint of annoyance. "You keep an eye on him and call me back if anything changes, okay? I mean it."

TBC


End file.
